by Gina Cresse
There was no telling how many of these paintings were floating around, and just how many times they’d been given away.
“How about Bridgett Winnomore? Do you recall her in any of your classes?” I asked.
He searched his memory, then finally shook his head. “Can’t say that I recall that name.”
Right. Raven Covina is the kind of woman men cheat on their wives with. There’s something unforgettable about her. Bridgett, on the other hand, is the kind of woman who gets cheated on. As a wife, it doesn’t pay to be forgettable, but as a murderer, maybe it does. Maybe Bridgett really was in one of his classes, but unlike Raven, she failed to make an everlasting impression.
I thanked Mr. Champion for his help and wandered back to my car, wondering what to do next.
Sam Wright was barking into his phone about the ludicrous state of the judicial system when I walked into his office. He nodded at me as I pushed the door closed and strolled over to his new whiteboard. As he continued to reprimand whoever was on the other end of the line, I picked up a marker and pulled the cap off. Sam quickly put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “Hey. What do you think you’re doing?” he asked me, ignoring the caller.
“I’m adding a clue to the list,” I explained as I began writing on his precious board.
Sam removed his hand from the phone. “Call me back when you’ve grown a new brain, Huey!” he roared, then slammed the phone down on its cradle.
I jumped at the sound. “My goodness. Who was that?” I asked, surprised at his anger.
“Another defense attorney who wants to suppress evidence that would, without a doubt, convict his client,” Sam said, fuming.
“On what grounds?” I asked.
“The kid confessed and handed us the murder weapon, but his brilliant lawyer says we can’t use either because the kid’s got a hearing problem and may not have heard us read him his rights.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know. Welcome to our wonderful judicial system. Anyhow, what’s this clue you have?”
“Our killer was a student at UCSD sometime in the past fifteen years or so.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down very much,” he replied.
“Wait. I’m not finished. He took a class called Principals of Color. Every student in the class is required to paint the same purple landscape I found in Lou’s house, and they’re also required to mix their own paints for the assignment.”
Sam rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and watched me scribble on his board. “How’d you find this out?”
“I spoke with the teacher. His name’s Peter Champion.” I finished writing and put the marker back in its tray. “I’m not going to write this down, but if I had to make a bet, I’d say our killer is female.”
Sam crossed his arms over his broad chest and studied my face. “Now what makes you say that?” he asked.
“It’s just a hunch, really. Close to seventy percent of Mr. Champion’s students today were women. If that’s typical for all his classes, then the odds are in my favor that I’m right.”
Sam pushed his chair back and pulled a bundle of paper out of his file cabinet. He slid it across his desk toward me. “These are recent statistics from the Department of Justice. Take a look and you’ll see that men are almost nine times more likely to commit murder than women.”
I studied the charts and graphs, then I shoved it back toward him. “But look there, where it shows that woman are more likely to use poison than any other means when they do commit murder,” I rebutted.
Sam glanced at the chart briefly, then jammed it back into his file cabinet. “All I’m saying is, if you’re going to go on hunches or odds, then the percentages point to a male offender.”
“I’d agree if the weapon was anything other than poison. I bet I’m right.”
Sam smiled and shook his head, giving me a doubtful look.
“Okay, I’ll make you a bet. If our killer turns out to be female, you owe me…what? What can you afford, Mr. Cheapo?”
“Cheapo? I’m not cheap. I’m just thrifty,” he replied, defending his character.
“Fine, Mr. Thrifty. If I win, you owe Craig and me the biggest, best dinner to be found in San Diego. If you win, which you won’t, Craig and I will take you out on the Plan C for a weekend of fishing. Deal?”
Sam grinned from one overconfident ear to the other. “You’re on, Miss Know-it-All. What’s that teacher’s name, again?”
“Peter Champion. Why?”
“I’m going over to the university and get a list of his past students.”
I got up and headed for the door. “Good. While you’re doing that, I’m going to call around and find out who has the most expensive lobster in town.”
Chapter Thirteen
Fiona invited me to play cards with her lady investors’ club, and since Craig had to stay late at the hospital for a staff meeting, I agreed to join in. It was going to be sort of a “girls night out” and I looked forward to it.
Fiona answered the door in top form, wearing a long, red evening gown with matching shoes and a feathery black hat. She wore black velvet gloves that went all the way up past her elbows. I gaped at her attire only long enough for her to grab my hand and yank me into the house.
”Devonie! You made it!” She led me to the dining room, where a group of woman sat around the table, drinking margaritas and showing off their jewelry. They were all dressed for a formal affair and looked as though they’d spent the entire day in the capable hands of a professional hairdresser.
“Girls, this is Devonie. She just bought that little estate sale house I had listed. If we’re all real nice to her, she might join our little investors’ club,” Fiona announced as she paraded me around the table like a poodle in a dog show.
All the ladies stopped their oohing and aahing and looked me over. Now I really felt like a dog in a contest. Fiona didn’t tell me to dress as though I were attending the Oscars. I’d put on my most comfortable jeans and sneakers, and because it was a little bit cool outside, found a sweatshirt without a stain on the front. This is how I thought people dressed to play cards. Hopefully, this would be my only faux pas of the evening.
Finally, one of the ladies broke the silence. “You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” she said to me. “That shirt you’re wearing brings the color out so vividly.” Then they all nodded and agreed with her, smiling and greeting me with the most gracious hospitality that I nearly forgot how underdressed I was. One of the ladies patted the empty seat next to hers and invited me to sit.
Fiona disappeared into the kitchen for a moment then returned with a tray of chips and salsa and a margarita. “Okay, everyone knows Devonie’s name, so now you all tell her yours,” she said, placing the drink in front of me.
The woman to my immediate left started the show. I guessed her age to be somewhere around the same as Fiona’s. Her hair was colored an almost unnatural red, and she wore a forest-green evening gown. A huge diamond sat perched on her finger like a finch. “I’m Dorothy,” she said.
“Dorothy owns five duplexes and a triplex. I sold her every one of them,” Fiona boasted, taking a seat across from me.
Next to Dorothy was a younger woman, maybe closer to my age. She wore a basic black dress with spaghetti straps and a delicate pearl necklace. “Hi. I’m Melissa,” she said, with a kind smile.
“Melissa and her husband buy and sell rehab houses, like you’re doing,” Fiona added. She picked up a huge stack of cards and began shuffling.
Between Melissa and Fiona sat the most striking woman in the room. She looked like an Italian movie star from my mother’s era. Her thick black hair fell down both sides of her face in even waves, like frosting on a cake. I’ve always wondered how women make hair do that—without lacquer. She wore a turquoise dress with a matching feather boa. She also wore at least one ring on every finger, and even two on her thumbs. I wondered how she’d be able to hold her cards. “Pleased to meet you, D
evonie. My name’s Sophia, but everyone calls me Sophie.”
I smiled and waited for Fiona to describe her real estate portfolio, but she was too busy shuffling that enormous stack of cards in front of her. There must have been six decks. “What kind of investing do you do, Sophie?” I asked.
“I own an apartment complex. It’s small, but it keeps me living the lifestyle I’ve become accustomed to.”
I stared at Sophie for a moment and wondered if she might actually be that actress from days gone by.
“And I’m Millie,” the tiny woman in the seat to my right announced. She was the most petite thing, and I wondered where in the world she could find an evening gown in a size one. “I’m a general contractor,” she said.
“You? But you’re so tiny,” I marveled.
She stuck her chin out, pulled up her chiffon sleeve and made an attempt to flex her bicep muscle. “Don’t let these little chicken wings fool you. I’m tough as steel,” she said. The entire group broke out laughing.
Fiona continued cutting the cards. “Millie is a general contractor by trade, but she hires subs to do everything but the decorating. She’s the smartest woman I know. After her husband passed away, she studied for the state licensing exam and passed with flying colors.”
I gave her a smile appropriate for how impressed I was. Then I turned to Fiona. “Why didn’t you tell me the dress code? I feel like I should be sitting in the kitchen with the maid.”
“Oh, nonsense. I didn’t think you’d come if I told you we crazy old broads dress up like a bunch of floozies for our monthly game of Spite and Malice. You can dress up next time if you decide to join.”
Millie took a swig of her margarita and wiped the salt from the edges of her mouth. “Come on, Fiona. Deal the cards,” she said, anxious to get started.
I held up my hand. “Wait a minute. I thought we were playing poker or blackjack. I don’t know how to play…what’s it called?”
“Spite and Malice. It’s easy. We’ll play a practice round to show you,” Fiona said.
As the evening rolled on, it became clear to me that these women didn’t care who won or lost. Tonight was a night of dress-up and socializing. Nothing more. Dorothy kept insisting that no one let their hands be seen by any of the other players, yet consistently announced the cards she drew from the pile on the table, as they were so useless to her that she’d never have a chance of winning.
Millie kept bending the rules to allow me to take back plays that were not in my best interest. No one seemed to mind. The fact that there was no money on the table probably had a great deal to do with their agreeable temperament.
Fiona dealt the next hand. “Did I tell you girls that Devonie found a lottery ticket worth millions in that little house I sold her?”
The women nearly choked on their chips and gaped at me. “What?” they all said in unison.
Fiona continued dealing. “But someone stole it. Turns out that poor man who owned the house was murdered, probably for the ticket. How’s the investigation going, toots?”
Everyone’s eyes were on me. I straightened my cards on the table and took another sip of my margarita. They weren’t letting me off the hook until I spilled the beans. “Sam hasn’t made any arrests yet.”
Millie gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my. Murder? How exciting. Tell us more. Maybe we can help solve it.”
“I really don’t think we should talk about it. I mean, it’s still an ongoing investigation,” I said, hoping she’d drop the subject. I should have realized that once the cat was out of the bag, there’d be no putting it back without some serious scratches on my arms.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. You can’t talk about the details,” Fiona said.
I was finally able to breathe again, and relaxed my fists to allow my fingernails to dislodged from my palms.
“But everyone already knows that Arthur Simon got that lottery ticket. It was all over the news,” Fiona blurted, before I could stop her.
I cringed as soon as I heard her say his name. I thought Millie was going to explode. “Arthur Simon murdered him?” she gasped.
I shook my head frantically. “No! No! Arthur Simon didn’t have anything to do with it. Please, Fiona. We really shouldn’t be talking about it,” I insisted.
Fiona frowned. “I’m sorry. It’s just that it was all over the news and all, how Arty won that money. And it had to be the ticket you found in that little house. I mean, it was for fifty-eight million, just like yours, and it was just about to expire.”
Fiona couldn’t help herself. The women around the table were eating this up like chocolate covered strawberries. I wanted to slide under the table and disappear. Sam would kill me if he knew what was going on.
“Fifty-eight million? My God! How did Arthur get the ticket if he wasn’t the murderer?” Dorothy asked.
“Please, ladies. Arthur Simon is not a murderer. This whole conversation should not be taking place,” I pleaded. “Fiona, can we just play the game?”
Fiona gave me a sympathetic smile. “Sure, toots. We won’t say another word, will we girls?”
They all pretended to lock their lips and throw the imaginary keys over their shoulders.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I could get in a lot of trouble if Sam—”
Fiona shushed me. “Don’t you be sorry. We all understand. Now let’s play.”
“Thank you,” I squeaked.
Fiona played her hand and swallowed the last of her margarita.
“Didn’t you used to date Arthur Simon, Fiona?” Dorothy piped up.
“Just the one time, but I’ve been trying to get in touch with him, ever since he—”
Fiona spotted my glare and stopped herself. “Just one time, Dorothy. Now I think we better concentrate on the game.”
Not another word was spoken about Arthur Simon or the lottery ticket or the murder for the rest of the evening. At the end of the night, the group invited me back to the next monthly game. I promised I would attend, although it would mean I’d have to shop for a suitable outfit. I wondered if my wedding dress would do.
Chapter Fourteen
I’d just sent Craig off to work and was about to head over to Rancho Costa Little to see if I could do some yard cleanup since Sam wouldn’t let me remove anything else from the house until he completed his investigation. I grabbed my keys and was headed for the garage when I heard tires screech in the driveway. Seconds later, someone was pounding violently on the front door. I hurried over to the window and peeked out to see Sam banging with one hand and holding a newspaper with the other.
“I’m coming! Settle down!” I hollered through the door before he busted it down. Once I’d opened it an inch, he shoved his way in and slammed the door behind him.
“What have you done?” he demanded, waving the paper in my face.
I stared blankly at him, unsure what to say. “I haven’t done anything. What’s wrong?”
Sam’s face was beet-red and his chest heaved with every breath. He slapped the newspaper down on the table and jammed his finger on a spot on the front page. “Read this,” he ordered.
I read the headline and immediately realized why he was furious. It read: SIMON CLAIMS MURDER VICTIM’S PRIZE.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know anything about this,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at me.
I read the story, which confirmed the fact that Lou Winnomore had indeed been murdered, and the motive was believed to be for the winning lottery ticket.
“I didn’t do this. I swear. Why would I?” I insisted.
“Then who did?” he boomed, still seething.
I melted into a chair and rubbed my temples to ward off an impending headache. “I might have an idea,” I admitted, squeezing my eyes shut and cringing at the anticipation of his reaction.
“I knew it! I swear this is the last time I let you get involved in an investigation. I don’t know what I was thinking,” he hissed.
“N
ow wait a minute. Just because I think I might know who’s responsible for the story doesn’t mean I had anything to do with it,” I said in my own defense.
Sam opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off.
“And besides, there wouldn’t even be an investigation if it weren’t for me. Don’t you forget that, you…you,” I couldn’t get the words out, I was so mad.
Sam stood in the middle of the room with his arms folded across his big chest, glaring at me. I picked up the phone next to the chair and dialed Fiona’s number.
As I suspected, the conversation at last night’s game let to the story on the front page. Dorothy’s son is a reporter for the Union Tribune. Dorothy must have left the card game last night and went directly to his house to give him the scoop. I explained to Sam the events of last evening. He didn’t cool down much, but at least his hostility was transferred from me to Fiona and her cronies.
“So, what does this mean to the investigation?” I asked, already pretty sure what the answer would be.
“Up till now, it looked like the killer was sticking around town. This story might scare him off. He’s got a million bucks to play with. He can go just about anywhere.”
“She,” I corrected.
“Whatever. The point is, we no longer have the luxury of time to figure this one out. It may already be too late.”
“I’m not sure we ever really did have the luxury of time.” I spotted a cufflink under the coffee table that Craig had lost a few nights ago. We’d searched the entire house, and there it was, in plain view. I picked it up and stared at it, dumbfounded at how we could have missed it. “Why don’t we go back over to the house and look again. Maybe we’ve missed something,” I suggested.
Sam nodded. “At this point, that’s about all we can do. I’ll follow you over.”
I dumped the contents of one of the big plastic garbage bags onto the garage floor. Sam had already been through the bags once, the first time he searched the house, but we had more information now. Maybe something would stand out this time around. Sam and I sifted through every scrap of paper or bit of miscellaneous trash, looking for something we might have missed.
